The Recovery of The Falls of the Reichenbach
by Pocketbook-Angel
Summary: An eccentric aristocrat hires Sherlock to recover his painting "The Falls of the Reichenbach" from gangsters who are holding it for ransom. It doesn't go as planned, and Sherlock makes new enemies everywhere. Set at the beginning of The Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock/Lestrade Case Fic. COMPLETE
1. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee

John had never been surrounded by so many penises. The study's dark-panelled Edwardian interior had been turned into a museum of erotic art. Ceramic sailors frolicked under a drawing of swimmers doing very complicated underwater exercises, while on the other side of the room, a soldier was enjoying a spanking from his superior officer, a clear violation of military protocol. The worst offender was the painting directly behind the desk. "Lido and the Swan" said the metal plaque attached to the frame. The angry white bird who tugged at the sheet half-heartedly wrapped around Lido appeared to be a duck. Lido was running away, but his erection suggested he wasn't completely averse to the attention. DONALD DUCK, John wrote in his notebook. The outside of Lord Balmoral's house had been so unremarkable, sedate foliage hiding it from its neighbours in St. John's Wood.

"And that's why I want to hire you, Mr Holmes," Lord Balmoral said. John tried to focus on the conversation. He'd given up on guessing Lord Balmoral's age—either an energetic ninety year old who always ate his vegetables, or a sixty-something addicted to cigarettes. The room's décor was a strike against the healthy lifestyle theory.

"I really think you should call the police. They can't be relied on for thinking, but they are quite good when it comes to intimidation and they probably won't steal the cash," Sherlock said.

The case was even duller than Sherlock had expected. Two young men who claimed to be from the auction house had shown up, loaded a Turner worth a couple of million into an unmarked van, and driven away with it. Since they would never be able to sell the painting on the open market, they offered to return it in exchange for some cash. A simple, efficient, and boring crime.

London's interesting criminals must have decided to take up healthy hobbies like golf or hiking in the Lake District, and even Moriarty, after taking a few minutes to break in and rearrange the furniture, had been quiet lately. Usually during slow periods, Sherlock would amuse himself with Lestrade's cold cases, spinning theories that would never stand in court, but he wanted the memory of what had happened between them the other day to fade before they saw each other again. He'd carefully stashed his memory of the kiss in a dark attic corner of his mind palace, but he kept waking up to find it waiting for him at the breakfast table.

"I was told not to contact the police."

"That's usually what criminals say; feel free to ignore it," Sherlock said. "The police are your best option, especially since you need the money quickly. You've got a house up north you can't sell, badly in need of repairs, and your recent losses in Macau have left you with some heavy debts and very unsympathetic creditors." Sherlock waited for Lord Balmoral to ask how he knew about Macau.

"I prefer to have as little to do with the police as possible… one might say there is a history."

"Didn't you get my number from a policeman?"

"Nina Lestrade was kind enough to give me your number when she heard about the theft. She sold me a picture once and..." Lord Balmoral's expression became wistful, and Sherlock and John were afraid he was going to start telling another story. Earlier, he had taken almost an hour to tell them how "The Falls of the Reichenbach" had come to be in his possession, a story that could have been summarised as "purchased by my grandfather."

"There's really nothing—" Sherlock stood up and reached for his coat.

"I first met Greg Lestrade the night of my fiftieth birthday, twenty years ago, no, more than that," Lord Balmoral continued as if he hadn't seen Sherlock preparing to leave. "The party was attended by a hundred of my closest friends, but I felt the chill of approaching winter. I went for a stroll to gather my thoughts, and found myself in a place… when we met, his eyes were so kind and understanding, I wanted to offer him the world. I suggested I was willing to financially recompense him for certain services, 500 pounds and a weekend in Spain."

"So when you said you knew him, you meant he arrested you," Sherlock said.

"Twice. I saw him a year later, very tight trousers."

"But you knew he was a policeman," John said.

"One has hopes. A word of advice, young man," Lord Balmoral glared suddenly at John. "Never give your full name and don't talk about the money. Real prostitutes aren't shy about asking for it, coppers don't like to because you can argue entrapment. Don't mention drugs; even if you need a little bump first…" His eyes grew wistful.

"I will take your case," Sherlock announced.

"Good, good. They'll send a car around at 8 tonight. I took the liberty of making business cards for you both." He rummaged in his desk and pulled out two sheets of perforated paper. "False identities, eh? Like a spy novel."

"Robert Smith from the Getty? Am I playing an American?" John asked. The museum's logo had lines running through it and John suspected that the ink in Lord Balmoral's printer had not been changed in years.

"You're hoping I'll sell privately and cheaply in exchange for your help. I wrote the story down somewhere…" Lord Balmoral began to shuffle through the papers on his desk.

Sherlock was very quiet as they walked back to the flat. "Thinking," was his abrupt response whenever it looked like John was going to ask a question.

"I suppose you're wondering how I knew he'd been to Macau," Sherlock finally said.

"Not really. He's a bit like the Ancient Mariner, isn't he, only with prostitutes instead of an albatross. Are we really going to get in a car driven by god knows who, going to god knows where, carrying a duffel bag with half a million pounds?"

"Euros. They're lighter."

"Euros."

"Yes."

"It's really unfortunate that you'll be murdered along with me because you won't be able to investigate our deaths. We should at least tell our friend at the Yard about our plans for tonight."

"No. They said no police."

"But… you just said that's what they say."

Sherlock picked up his violin. The discussion was clearly over.

John listened to Sherlock play. He hadn't listened to much classical music before moving to Baker Street, but he'd started to hear correlations between composers and Sherlock's mood. When he was frustrated with a case, modernists. The spiky fingerings required his full concentration and would give him the distance he needed to work through the problem. Between cases, he would often work on his own compositions, sweet melodies John wanted to believe revealed Sherlock's softer side.

John was right, it would be safer if they told Lestrade what they were going to do, but if he called, Lestrade would want to talk. Four days ago they'd kissed, or to be accurate, Sherlock had kissed Lestrade. He'd been smug and annoying and something else and Sherlock had wanted to help him stop feeling whatever he was feeling. _I wanted him to stop talking, so I kissed him. I wanted him to feel better, so I kissed him. I wanted to know what he tasted like, so I kissed him. _There'd been a flood of texts afterwards, starting with _what happened where are you?_ and ending with _call me when you're ready_.

It was going to be awkward.

* * *

"Lido and the Swan" turned out to conceal a very big safe, but fifty thousand euros wasn't very impressive, especially bundled in a nylon tote bag.

"The money wasn't in there this morning," Sherlock said after Lord Balmoral returned to the house.

"He went to the bank?"

Sherlock shook his head, but didn't seem interested in explaining.

The Mercedes that pulled up had windows so dark it was impossible for passengers in the back to see outside, but Sherlock had his own internal GPS. He leaned back, casual and relaxed, but John could feel that he was completely alert. The driver was silent, letting the Chinese characters tattooed across the back of his thick neck and across his fists do the talking for him.

"Let me guess, _love_ and _hate_ in Chinese," John said.

"It's fairly clever. The idea is that we focus on the tattoos and forget about his actual face. If the police ever do swing by for an interview, he'll be scrubbed clean as an innocent babe."

The driver did not like that at all.

"I've been thinking about adding a section to my website about distinguishing between real and temporary tattoos. Tattoos, like everything, are subject to the whims of fashion, so if you look at his hands, the design is dated, but the ink appears new."

"Can you read it?"

"It looks like writing I came across when I studied baritsu in Japan."

The driver moved his hands to the bottom of the steering wheel, out of Sherlock's sight.

"I didn't know you'd been to Japan. What's baritsu?"

"It's a martial art that combines the best of judo, karate, ninjitsu, and capoeira. It's quite difficult, and although it is my invention, I'm not yet comfortable calling myself a master. We're finally crossing Vauxhall Bridge."

"Your invention?"

"Yes, I'm a founding member of the International Baritsu Association."

John resisted the urge to ask how many members there were in total. He'd thought it was a dream, the night he'd come down to the kitchen and found Sherlock kicking at the ceiling.

"Leaving Wandsworth Road," Sherlock said. "We really could have taken the tube."

The car stopped in front of a red brick industrial building that had been converted into offices. The street was choked with cars, some half-parked on the pavement as if they were hoping to crawl away from the street unnoticed. A white glazier's van was parked at the rear of the building, but they hadn't started work yet, strips of plastic still covered the building's few windows. From the third storey, CCTV kept a careful watch on the street. John turned his face towards it, the first victim entered the building at 20:24, they would say.

Fresh paint and cigarette smoke dominated the ground floor. "Fairco Trading Corp Ltd" was the only company listed on the board next to the lift. John pressed the button, but nothing happened.

Sherlock swung the bag back and forth as they climbed the stairs.

"You're looking cheerful. Planning on doing a runner with the money?" John asked.

"I thought tonight was going to be dull. It is, but it is going to be a different kind of dull than I originally anticipated, and it may lead to something better."

Three men were waiting for them – track suits, Glocks shoved in their waistbands, dark sunglasses, gold chains draped around the skinny, pale neck of their leader. Gangland had clearly suffered a sartorial decline since the time of the Krays.

"Is that it?" Gold Chains was perplexed by the gym bag.

"Half a million euros," Sherlock said.

"Euros... what the fuck are you playing at?" A tracksuit demanded.

"We've got the picture, now we want the product." The other tracksuit pulled a drop cloth away from the wall and revealed the painting.

Terrified men struggled against a violent sea; the mast of the ship pointed away from the fragile light of the sky and pulled them towards the storm. It was beautiful, but it was definitely not a waterfall. It was Rembrandt's _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_, which had been stolen back in 1990.

"Slide the bag towards us," Gold Chains ordered.

"No," Sherlock said.

Both tracksuits had their hands on their guns. John wished he'd brought his gun even though they still would have been outnumbered.

"It's good that you didn't," Sherlock said. He dropped the tote bag. "No need for that, we're all friends here."

The driver burst through the door, red and wheezing from running up the stairs. The ink on his neck was smeared with sweat. "It's not them," he gasped. He pointed at Sherlock. "He's Sherlock Holmes!"


	2. Shade and Darkness

"Urgent phone call, sir." Donovan stepped into the interview room. Even early in the day, the room smelled like sweat and layers of cigarette smoke painted into the concrete walls. DI Lestrade, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tapped his pen against the table.

"We'll finish this later." Lestrade stood up, leaving his files on the table. "Davies, why don't you get Mrs Harris a cup of tea?"

"DI Lestrade leaving the interview, 10:43." PC Davies switched off the recorder and followed Lestrade out of the room.

"So far, she may or may not have heard of Tom Harris, who wants to know. The photos I accidently left may give her memory a little nudge."

A blood-curdling screech echoed through the hall.

"I'll kill the bastard. How dare he? When I find him, I'm going to cut off his cock and shove it in his ear."

"_When I find him_, doesn't sound like she knows she's a widow," Donovan said.

"It's a shame, she's got a motive and no alibi. Go round and interview the neighbours again. I'll break the news to her gently, then get someone on her to find out where she goes next."

"You really do have a phone call. The dealer you brought in yesterday, well, he's feeling helpful today. He says he's worked for Moriarty directly and can wear a wire the next time they meet. If you still think those gas leaks weren't accidents and we can get the man behind them…"

"I'll talk to Sherlock and find out what he thinks," Lestrade said.

"Right. I forgot where the Moriarty theory came from. I'll talk to the neighbours and get back to you after your meeting," Donovan said.

Budgeting all morning, a seminar he'd been volunteered for in the afternoon. "They need someone from our division and you already look miserable," his DCI had said. Before the seminar, he closed the door to his office and indulged in his new favourite hobby, stalking his wife online. Not stalking exactly, scrolling through the stream of photos she posted every day. A year ago, she'd started linking to new artists and posting pictures of their work, but now she only posted pictures of food. _River Café, grilled calamari_. Behind the innocent cephalopod, a familiar grey sleeve lurked over a plate of courgettes.

"He's really sweet once you get to know him," his wife had said, a statement too astonishing for a reply. Sherlock had certainly never described his brother as sweet.

The Holmes brothers were trouble. Lestrade didn't trust Mycroft, he didn't trust anyone who valued abstractions over people, while Sherlock was arrogant and becoming erratic. The other day, right in the middle of a somewhat normal conversation, he had attacked him with his tongue. They'd been talking, and then Sherlock was on top of him. It had been good, one of his top five kisses, not that he kept rankings, but Sherlock disappeared before Lestrade could find out was he was after and didn't respond to calls or texts.

_We need to talk, not about us, about your friend._ Lestrade deleted _not about us_, there was no "us". A call from his office number would be better than a text because Sherlock would know that it was business, not personal.

The budget meeting was worse than he'd expected. Somehow, his high solution rate meant he could get by with a smaller team and no overtime. "We don't let them have lives, at the very least they should get the hours," Lestrade protested.

"We're making cuts at every level, Lestrade. If they want lives, Costa is hiring."

At least Sherlock worked for free. Unfortunately, Sherlock had no interest in most of the bodies that came back as murders. The squatters who had rotted away after taking the wrong pills, the dealer who was stabbed in the back of a pub, nobody saw nothing, the mother who said she didn't know where her children were, hadn't seen them for days. Knocking on doors, digging through lock-ups, these cases weren't solved through genius; they were solved by paying attention and putting in the time.

Watching DI Tobias Gregson struggle to keep his eyes open during "Policing in an Open Society" made Lestrade feel a little better. "It's not our fault these young coppers can't keep themselves off YouTube… remember waiting to use the typewriters? I probably still have tippex under my fingernails." Gregson dropped the binder they'd been given into a bin at the end of the hallway.

Gregson and Lestrade had started at the same nick and disliked each other immediately, clashing over crime scenes and seven-a-side on the weekends. Now it was distressing that Gregson's greying hair made him look like a senior politician, or worse, a Chief Inspector, while his own made him look old.

"This morning they tell me no overtime and when do we finish? Almost nine. I should get OT for this seminar. Drinks, Toby?" Lestrade said.

"Some other time, my wife has been home with the baby all day," Gregson said.

"I didn't know Emma had another. Congratulations." After he said it, he remembered five years ago Emma had accused Gregson of sleeping with his sergeant, now she was married to a history teacher she'd met between decree nisi and decree absolute.

"Elizabeth. We've been married almost a year now, never thought I'd be changing nappies at my age. Never," Gregson said. He stepped away to answer his mobile. It looked like bad news. Lestrade felt sorry for Elizabeth and the baby, who would always lose out to the job.

"Greg, do you still work with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I wouldn't say work with, he consults now and then. You know how he is."

"He just got picked up in a drugs bust in Lambeth. They want me to come down there."

"I'll go."

This explained everything.

It was the call he'd been dreading. Sherlock had been doing so well, living with a flatmate, working regularly. He'd settled down, stopped his private war against the world, a war in which he was the only victim. The last time Lestrade had been to 221B, any decaying body parts were hidden away neatly in the kitchen, and Sherlock and John were watching the telly, almost, he hated the word, like normal people.

* * *

The first time he'd met Sherlock, he'd been called in to play good cop, to give cigarettes and sympathy and to pretend to believe whatever story he was spinning.

"The sergeant thinks the only one who knows how the crime was committed is the murderer. It's an open book, a bloody newspaper, it's not my fault you're all too stupid to read."

Lestrade lit a cigarette for Sherlock and then one for himself. "Talk to me. I don't think you did it."

"Is that your detective's instincts?"

"How tall are you?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You noticed that."

"The angles of the wounds say the murderer must be almost the same height as the victim. Let me show you." Lestrade said. He stood up and walked around to Sherlock's side of the table. "Stand up. Yeah, we're almost the same height." He put his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and held an imaginary knife in the other.

"It's not premeditated, I'm angry, I rush forward, stabbing here." He touched Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock stepped back.

"Exactly. You step back, and I pull the knife out, and that's done you. If you had a couple of inches on me, you would have been hit here. If the killer was right-handed, here." Lestrade's hand rested below Sherlock's heart.

"You're not as dim as the others," Sherlock said. His voice was almost a whisper.

It was the closest Sherlock would ever come to a compliment.

* * *

"That was a right cock-up and someone's going to pay," DI Pollard said. His shaved head gleamed under his office's harsh lights until it matched the shiny track suit he still wore. The fake Rembrandt was propped up against his desk.

"We're holding them both until their story gets checked out."

"How about holding the money and letting them go," Lestrade said. "If the story about the painting is true, it's a matter for the art squad. Where did you get that, by the way? It's pretty good." Up close, the white-capped waves looked ready to break out of the canvas.

"It's very good. We thought we'd lucked into the real thing, someone flew out here from the FBI to have a gander. Fake."

"Where did it come from?"

Pollard shrugged. "Someone has to pay for what happened tonight. We've been on them for weeks, new players with a top product. I don't like new players."

"I don't either, they always make more work for me, but if this is an art squad gig, it'll come out of the art squad's budget. Let them do the work, and if it comes back to drugs, you can make the arrests. You may even get to keep that money, there's no way money stuffed in a tote bag is clean."

"Lestrade, if those two are into it, this is on you."

John had been left in an interview room for what felt like hours. He amused himself by making faces at the two way glass and preparing a lecture for Sherlock on the topic of if you expect my help, you need to keep me informed and another for the police about wasting an honest taxpayer's time. By the time Sherlock appeared at the door, he was more than ready to leave.

"I take it we're free to go," John said.

"For now. I'm staying here to talk to Lestrade. The detective constable who brought us here said he'd take us back."

"Out of curiosity, when did you know they were coppers? No, don't give me that you didn't know face. Was it just from the tattoos?"

"I'd already had my suspicions. Incidentally, he wants to get real tattoos once he retires, says they mean 'wrath of heaven' and 'you only live once' in Japanese. His translations may not be accurate, but we should be grateful he was curious enough to look me up on his smartphone. I'm the first result when you search for _baritsu_."

"But you knew before we went in the building?"

"The surveillance van outside confirmed it. Just try getting a window replaced at night."

"Right." John felt slightly better. Sherlock wouldn't deliberately walk into a trap.

* * *

"A mid-level dealer got pulled in yesterday, nervous and ready to grass. Says he's worked for Moriarty directly and can wear a wire the next time they meet."

Sherlock was quiet as he ran through the possibilities.

"Moriarty will find out and his fate will be brutal," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, we will get Moriarty in the end. Some accountant will wonder how an unemployed man can afford to spend a thousand pounds on a suit."

"He spends more than that. No one ever seems to wonder how detectives in vice can afford their suits."

"I used to wonder, one of the many reasons I didn't stay there for very long. Do you want a lift back to your flat?"

"You hated working vice, didn't you?"

"It's getting late and you have an early meeting with the art squad. After that, you can tell your earl that he isn't getting his money back."

"Aren't we closer to your house than mine?"

"No. At this time of night, you could be back at Baker Street in fifteen minutes."

"Lestrade, I am trying to invite myself over so we can have the kind of conversation I don't think you'd be comfortable having in a car park in Lambeth." Sherlock studied Lestrade's face. "You're being difficult."

* * *

It was impossible to escape from Lestrade's house without money for a taxi and no trains for hours.

It started inside the front door, Sherlock leaned forward as soon as the lock clicked. It ended very quickly, they'd made it upstairs to the bedroom, on the bed, he'd barely had time to take his trousers off. After, he'd rolled over and pretended to sleep. It was easier than answering Lestrade, who kept asking if he was okay.

Lestrade's study. Sherlock turned on the lamp. The light was too dim for reading, but the floor lamp behind the sofa was clearly angled for one reader. The books, _Moscow 1812_, _War and Peace_, _The Rise of Napoleon_, had bookmarks in them that suggested they hadn't been finished. The record player was dusty, empty spaces in the shelves where records had been removed. There used to be more photos as well. Sherlock studied the smeared dust. Six frames, now only one: _CID vs SB, 2000._ Football.

Looking through Lestrade's desk would be rude, but the laptop was different. What password would someone like Lestrade choose? Favourite sports (football), music (no idea), pets (none), birthday (no idea). Sherlock glared at _The Charterhouse of Parma_ and entered Napoleon. Wrong.

He imagined Lestrade sitting at the desk, early morning, half asleep before his coffee. He turned the laptop over, expecting the scrap of paper taped to the bottom. J_osephine1970._

Wrong.

Of course, after she'd left, Lestrade had taken down the photos and changed his password. He continued his search.

"You're not going to find my password by going through my record collection. I haven't listened to those in years."

Sherlock let the records fall back with a thud. He could feel Lestrade standing behind him.

"That's no reason to abuse them. We had a cyber-crime seminar a while ago and were told to use random letters and numbers. In theory, you need another computer to crack it."

"In theory?"

"Now that I've told you what to look for, it should be easy for you to find."

Lestrade's voice had that mocking edge it often acquired when he was feeling pleased with his own cleverness. It reassured Sherlock, nothing had to change because of what had happened earlier.

"Despite what they told you at the seminar, you wrote it down." Sherlock glanced at the bookcases, at the walls, at the papers on the desk. "It's not tucked into a book or record, it's where you can easily reach it. You have your old password taped under the computer, and the new one taped to the telephone." A list of names and phone numbers was taped to its side. "Mum and Dad, work, different numbers are different stations, China Palace, Golden Dragon Palace, Gianni's, Delhi Delight, not the healthiest of diets, these are all real numbers, but there's a pattern." Sherlock ran his finger over the list and triumphantly entered the password.

"The password wasn't meant to keep you out. Still, I'm surprised you got it so quickly."

Sherlock flushed. _Quickly_ wasn't a word he wanted to hear after what had happened earlier.

"Sherlock." Before he could move, Lestrade wrapped his arms around him. "I'm happy you're here with me."

Sherlock turned so he could see Lestrade. It was such a ridiculous, sentimental thing to say. He pressed his lips against Lestrade's shoulder.

"Let's try again," he said. His plans to catch the first train were completely forgotten.


	3. Light and Colour

Dealing with the police was tiresome. Too many unpleasant questions and they were rarely polite about the answers. The charming lad at his club had made it sound simple, had assured the painting would be returned, along with a nice bundle of unmarked notes, but his study, his refuge from the ugliness of the city, was full of coppers, an old one, a ginger with an odd accent, and the useless private detective. Sherlock Holmes sat there, staring with his cold blue eyes, while the ginger asked questions. It brought back memories of school, called into the prefect's study, waste of time, none of them ever good for much beyond a fumble behind the school chapel.

"I wasn't here at the time," Lord Balmoral said.

"I wasnae asking aboat the theft. We're asking aboat the money, ken?" DI Mackenzie had spent nineteen of his thirty-six years in America and acquired a BFA in photography from Parsons, a biography that was not an advantage at Scotland Yard. Art and Antiques, neglected and understaffed, became his manor, a place where no one questioned his fluctuating accent.

"I wasn't here at the time," Lord Balmoral repeated. "The money came from a friend, yes, that's it."

"Does your friend have a name?" DI Mackenzie could feel his questions bouncing off Lord Balmoral's fluffy white head.

"Of course he does, everyone has a name."

"Do you mind if I have a look upstairs, someone could've returned the painting while you weren't looking," the old detective said.

"If you must. My housekeeper will be outside smoking my cigarettes, if you have any questions."

"Right," Lestrade said.

No one else would have caught it, but Lord Balmoral had spent his life decoding the significance of innocent gestures. The old detective's cynical eyes softened as he looked at Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock, that cold fish, smiled in return.

"I know him," Lord Balmoral said.

"Of course you do, he used to make a habit of arresting you," Sherlock said.

"I know him." The last time he'd been arrested, yes, it was over twenty years ago, he hadn't looked like a policeman then, not like he did now.

"Your friend, the generous one who lent you half a million euros, what's his name?" Mackenzie tried again.

"I'm very tired. I've made a statement, and I've got, what do you call them, alibis, for the day. To be perfectly frank, I don't give a toss about the painting, I want to sell it and spend all the money before my feckless nephew and his mouse of a wife can get their paws on my estate."

Lord Balmoral relaxed as he watched the ginger and Lestrade's young man leave. Stick to the script and they can't touch you, he'd been promised.

Lestrade was waiting for them outside the door. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Lord Balmoral is not as soft-headed as he'd have us believe," Mackenzie said.

"Sherlock?"

"He's completely soft-headed and in grave danger. Can you get someone to watch him for the next few days while I sort everything out?"

"Do you think we have enough people for that?" Mackenzie made a little choking sound that might have been a laugh.

"Someone needs to watch him. If the police can't do it, I'll get someone better."

"Your homeless network might be a little conspicuous on this street," Lestrade said.

"I was thinking of the public. The press loves a title in trouble."

Lestrade waited until Mackenzie stepped away to slip something into Sherlock's hand. "A press conference isn't a bad idea. Until then, we'll have someone stop by every few hours."

A scrap of torn notepaper, _The Bagatelle, Curzon Street_ it proclaimed in gold cursive.

"This is what ye were meant to be carrying the other night." Mackenzie held up a small plastic bag with white powder.

"Cocaine."

"Nae, lad. MDMA cut with amphetamines and something else, mystery ingredient. Pure rush unless your heart gives out. Lestrade says you're a chemist as well. Our labs are analysing it, but there's a backlog and Drugs may forget to pass along what they know. A little more info on this, just between us?"

Sherlock took the bag and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat. He could feel it, waiting for the moment when he would be alone.

* * *

The Bagatelle, known as Allingham's until Allingham was charged with multiple counts of tax fraud, didn't attract much of a luncheon crowd. Bright, tropical coloured walls were covered in black and white photos from an imaginary golden age of travel. Hemingway, Saint-Exupéry, and two brass elephants welcomed members to a world of risk, adventure, and losing vast amounts of cash.

Sherlock checked to see if Lestrade's warrant card was still in his pocket. It might be useful if The Bagatelle got the wrong idea about his profession, and it would be inconvenient if Lestrade had chosen today to steal it back. After what had happened between them, it was difficult to keep thoughts of Lestrade confined to their appropriate place. Earlier, the brief touch of Lestrade's hand had been electric and all thoughts of the case had dropped away.

"I'm sorry, the bar is for members and their guests." The bartender didn't look up as Sherlock entered.

"I need to speak with the owner. Now we can discuss whether or not she's here, my name, my business, and you can stand there with your arms crossed, but that's a waste of your time and mine. I'm not the police, but this could become police business very quickly, so run and fetch Mrs Allingham."

"I don't use my married name at work. I'd rather our members didn't think about prison while they're here." The club owner was tall, her dark hair cut in the style of a 1930s actress. Her self-possession and blood-red manicure reminded Sherlock of Irene, but she lacked the spark, the humour that made Irene fascinating.

"If you're expecting Lord Balmoral to return the money you lent him, along with ten or twenty percent, you're going to be waiting a very long time," Sherlock said.

"I know, I was listening to his press conference. He was telling an amusing story about an MP he was at school with until a man with an unpleasant accent, a policeman, I suppose, reminded him he was appealing to the public for the return of his painting."

"Did he tell you what he was going to do with the money?"

"He's been a member here since the day it opened. Sometimes we give our oldest friends a little help so they don't have to leave the game early. In this case, he didn't tell us exactly what game he was playing and I didn't ask."

"And do you ever sell anything to keep the game going?" Sherlock allowed the club owner a glimpse of the drug, then let it settle back into his pocket. He'd felt it there ever since Mackenzie had given it to him, a small, persistent hungry ache even though he'd never liked MDMA. He'd been more interested in clarity than in cuddling with people of questionable hygiene.

The club owner sighed. "If I said I'd never seen it before—"

"It would be a lie."

"I don't want drugs in my club, Mr Holmes. We've had enough trouble, now I want a nice, clean place. One of our members approached me, and I refused. We've known each other long enough, so there were no hard feelings. It was business decision."

"Does this businessman have a name? Is he the one who gave you my name?"

"That would be telling."

"Yes, it would be." Sherlock smoothed out the paper Lestrade had given him and scribbled a name.

"Moriarty? Never heard of him."

"If that's true, you're very lucky."

"I make luck, Mr Holmes. It's my job."

Irene would have turned a line like that into a flirtatious challenge. A month ago there'd been a postcard, no return address, no signature, a palm tree against a bright sky. _Let's have dinner._ He couldn't give her an answer even if he wanted to, so he'd hidden the postcard in a stack of takeaway menus. Good hiding places were the most obvious.

The white powder waited for him as he walked back to his flat. In the old days, he would have told himself that testing the drugs on himself was necessary for complete knowledge, but now he didn't want any more lost days. And it would be difficult to hide it from John and John would not understand. There were people he didn't want to disappoint.

_Come immediately - SH_

_Working. - JW_

_Is this a real emergency or an I've run out of tea and can't leave the sofa emergency? - JW_

_Never mind. I'll ask Lestrade. - SH_

_The tea in is in a tin behind your fingernail collection. - JW_

_Btw we need to talk about your fingernail collection. - JW_

"What's the emergency? I said I was going for a coffee, so you've got fifteen minutes."

"I need you to sit down and not say anything." Sherlock brought out the bag of white powder. The table was already covered in equipment that Lestrade couldn't identify. Sherlock had John's laptop open as well as his own, maps on one and formulas on the other.

"What the hell is that?"

"A present from DI Mackenzie. He wants to know what it is. Protecting our national heritage doesn't get the lights in his office changed. You're staring at me."

"Yeah, well, I was thinking tonight—"

"No. You're being the wrong kind of distraction."

"What's the right kind?"

"Tell me about your case."

"Harris. Con merchant, classic cheat, sells what falls off the back of a lorry and makes pornos with his girlfriends. No more enemies than others of his kind."

"You've got me bang to rights, guv."

"Yeah, well, three days ago he runs into a hoodie outside his local. We have the CCTV, the kid walks up, sticks the knife in, runs."

"Angry customer?"

"I think it's the wife. She's small enough to pull off the teenager act for the cameras, and she was a little too good once we got her in the room, the lost Redgrave sister, carrying on about her betrayal."

"You're probably right."

"That's what I like to hear. Want to say it again?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his computer. "How many ferries run from Rotterdam to Hull?"

"Did Mackenzie have his press conference?" Lestrade turned on the television.

"It ended a while ago. Since you're not interested in being useful, there are chat shows and gardening."

_Police raid Acton drug houses_ was the top story.

"Oh, no. He never stops, does he?"

Tobias Gregson was leading the raid, his light hair gently ruffled by the helicopters circling the scene. He looked terribly efficient and ready for promotion as he directed the uniforms carrying bundles of drugs out of a semi-detached.

"John likes to remind me that the little people in the box can't actually hear you when you yell at them."

"Do you think he's the one who called the reporters? He's going to find a way to climb the ladder, budget cuts be damned." Lestrade glared at Gregson, who was taking a break from directing the uniforms to check his phone. "Sherlock, are you texting him?"

Sherlock tossed his phone to Lestrade.

_The drugs are fake. - SH_

"It would be unfortunate for a man with his ambitions to be caught making such a fuss about bicarbonate of soda."

"Are you serious?"

Gregson grabbed a package from one of the uniforms, tore it open, and tasted the contents. White powder spilled across the front of his suit.

Lestrade turned up the volume to better hear Gregson's shouting. "Now that's a violation of procedure—I've never seen anyone do that in real life. How did you know?"

"They're playing Follow the Lady, three card trick, a complicated solution to a simple problem. You're a chemist who wants to introduce a new product into the market. Artisan, hand-crafted. You don't know any dealers other than the ones who've sold you questionable weed and based on _Scarface_ and Guy Ritchie films, you think the drugs business might be a bit dangerous. Enter the consulting criminal. Where are the drugs? Under this card? No, it's a painting! Here? Wrong again. Two lengthy and very expensive undercover operations made into jokes."

"You think this is Moriarty."

"It feels a little too clumsy, but it's Moriarty. Or someone aping his business model."

"And what you've been working on?"

"Real."

"Mackenzie's taking a risk with that."

"It's not me he trusts, it's you." Sherlock closed his laptop. "Tea? According to John, we're not completely out, it's been hiding behind, well, it's been hiding."

Lestrade's honesty was frustrating and appealing. The case was almost finished, the few remaining details could wait while the two of them carried out a practical test of the drug's effects. Lestrade wouldn't have to agree, it might be interesting, the unsuspecting subject. Sherlock handed Lestrade a mug and watched him drink.

"Once the painting is back at the auction house, I want to visit you again."

"Hurry up and solve it," Lestrade said. "Looks like Mackenzie has another present for you."

Sherlock joined Lestrade at the window. Together they watched Mackenzie wrestle a large canvas out of the back of his car.

* * *

The painting's blurry yellows didn't match the wallpaper or the sofa or anything else in the flat.

"It's such a muddle, a polite and English apocalypse. Après le déluge—"

"Why is it fake?"

"Because it's leaning against a chair in your flat." Nina Lestrade had barely glanced at the painting before declaring it a forgery. "History and context are very important. I told Greg everyone already knew that Vermeer was a fake, but they were hoping a poorly educated billionaire would buy it before it was found out. My father bought all sorts of dreadful paintings after he made his first million. He still thinks provenance is a region in France."

"There's no old man in Argentina, but it wasn't part of the game, so I didn't care. There's a young, or young-ish man somewhere in England turning out paintings that can fool the experts. Who is it? Well?"

"That wasn't a rhetorical question? How should I know?"

"You went to art school, and until last week, you were an art history teacher."

"Does Greg know I've quit?"

"A name, a couple of names, who could do this kind of work?"

"I haven't really quit, stress leave—divorce is very stressful."

"Stress? You don't want to quit until you know the scheme you've cooked up with my brother will work."

"Scheme? I haven't the faintest." Everything about her suggested complete innocence.

"I think you're more than capable of finding out who painted that. It might take me hours to track down where he gets his materials and days to work through a list of suspects, but that sounds boring and if I wanted to spend my time knocking on the wrong doors, I might as well be a real copper."

"You haven't given me a reason to help. I'm not particularly community-minded, you know. Greg said that you don't like getting out of bed for anything less than a serial killer or a corpse in a locked room, but if I do help you, it would be lovely to think I could rely on you if necessary." Nina tilted the painting forward, glanced at the back, then sat down in front of it.

"I would love to know who painted this. It really is quite good even if it doesn't pass the sniff test," she said.

Sherlock knelt down next to the painting. Up close, it was obvious.

John had become accustomed to finding his flatmate in odd positions, but he was unprepared for the sight of Sherlock and a woman in a pencil skirt sniffing a canvas like terriers investigating a shrub in the park. He'd always known if Sherlock were to ever bring someone back to the flat, it would have to be someone who matched him in strangeness, but from where he was standing, no one would fault Sherlock's taste.

"It's obvious," Sherlock said. "John, come here and smell the painting."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Constable Watson, how lovely to see you." Nina held out her hand.

John tried to think of the correct, non-guilty response, and failed.

"Linseed oil," Sherlock said.

"_Light and Colour_ was one of a pair of Turners that was stolen a few years back," Nina said. "_The painting in the museum is a forgery, I've got the real one here, ready to sell._ It's the Mona Lisa con."

"Valfierno and the Mona Lisa con were never real, but criminals don't know that, so an ambitious criminal and clever forger might be tempted to try." Sherlock picked up the painting and set it on the sofa. "Do the colours really not go?"

"What is there now is completely adequate," John said.

"Come see me tomorrow, I may have names for you after all. If you need something to keep you occupied until then, the Poussin at the Wallace Collection is worth seeing—or you can look at it on your laptop while John walks me to the station."

* * *

The Crown had been refurbished in the late 1970s with white chairs and white tables, and partially updated twenty years later with inexpensive reproductions of the original Victorian fixtures. The woodchip had gone, but the smoke-darkened and uncomfortable plastic remained. The two styles uneasily co-existed, often causing a sense of uneasiness in more casual drinkers. As the pub was favoured by police, journalists, and other alcoholics, casual drinkers were rare.

Gregson was alone when Lestrade found him, placidly mumbling along to a distant radio. "Have you ever noticed songs make no sense? I used to ask Emma, no, she was the second one... I used to ask Tracey, what's an elephant stone, I asked. She couldn't tell me."

"You don't look so good, Toby." Lestrade wasn't much for The Crown, but Sherlock had forwarded some of the texts he'd received from Gregson, abusive, self-pitying, and finally incoherent.

"All musicians are junkies, you know." Gregson held up his empty glass. It continued to be empty despite his best policeman's glare. "I hate junkies. Junkies, bent coppers, barmen who say enough."

"So do I."

"That's why I like you, Greg. For all of your many flaws, you're not bent."

"Cheers." This was not a situation for sobriety.

"A shot for every kilo of bicarbonate we found today," Gregson explained. "There was enough brass in the room this afternoon to make a band, chief inspectors, superintendents, commanders, they all had a go. If my informant had kept me informed, I'd still have a career. I'm going to ask him why he didn't text me sooner." Gregson tried to pull his mobile out of his coat, it slipped through his fingers and skittered across the floor."

"You've already asked him, more than once tonight. Sherlock wasn't being... he didn't know about the raid until I turned on the telly."

"Sherlock is a genius, but he is also a wanker," Gregson said thoughtfully.

"They say the same about you, only not the genius part."

"Greg, I need a favour. We've had our differences in the past—"

"Differences? You lamped me one during that game against Special Branch."

"The boat is leaking and it's not just me going down."

"We were on the same team."

"That's right, mate. We're on the same team. I don't like to think our kid is on the take, but Drugs is a fucking sieve and someone is poking holes."

"What do you want from me?"

"Take my sergeant, keep an eye on him. Firm hand when needed."

"Can't do that."

"Ten minutes. If Sherlock had called me before those cameras were turned on, I'd still have a chance of going out with a Chief Inspector's pension." Gregson, slowly and with great dignity, made his way to the door.

It was cold outside the pub. The street was very quiet and the moon's sad half-smile was barely visible over the city's artificial twilight. Lestrade shivered, surprised by the sudden chill.

"Didn't there used to be more stars?" Lestrade tried to remember if there had been a time when the skies were clearer and darker, Venus waiting in the hour before the alarm's shrill buzz started the day.

"You, me, Sherlock, we're all in the fucking gutter, aren't we?"

Lestrade jumped back, but he wasn't fast enough to avoid Gregson, who was sick all over the pavement.


	4. The Falls of the Reichenbach

Greg heard his wife trying to shake the spare key out of its plaster rock.

"You're here?"

"I live here. We agreed on that, didn't we?" Greg was still eating breakfast.

"You're supposed to be on the train. Oh, there's someone you're meeting after work."

"Wasn't planning on it." He hoped he would be seeing Sherlock, but he knew better than to plan.

"Carefully shaved, your shirt is actually ironed for once, and you're eating yoghurt, which is something you only do when you feel unhappy about the weight you gained when you quit smoking." Nina playfully nudged his boot. "DMs? What happened to your grown-up shoes?"

"Toby happened."

"You might find the cover of today's _Daily Mail_ entertaining then. He looks like he's licking icing sugar off his fingers."

"That's bad for everyone, but if it had to happen—"

"There's also a piece in _The Guardian_ about the militarisation of police culture—they didn't like all of the guns—and a lovely photo of Toby shaking his fist at a helicopter." She handed him the newspaper. The photographer had captured Gregson looking both fascist and petulant.

"I'll take this to him, it'd be a shame if he missed it."

"Are you internet dating?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous. Maybe you'll meet someone who is kind and who will feed you vegetables. You won't make it to ninety on Greggs and Twix."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"As long as it's not one of my friends. They're all slags, you know."

"Like attracts like." As soon as he said it, he was sorry. This was where it started: shouting, accusations, slammed doors, tears, both real and deliberate.

"And that's how we ended up together, isn't it?" She took the yoghurt cup from his hand and kissed him on the cheek. "Go catch some baddies," she said.

* * *

The last time Sherlock had been to Lestrade's house, it had been too dark and he'd been too busy to take in more than the most superficial details and the next day he'd been half asleep when Lestrade had bundled him into the car and driven him back to London. Sherlock picked up the fake rock that held the spare key and set it next to a tomato cage that had been abandoned to weeds.

"Did you enjoy the museum?" Nina had filled the front room with stacks of boxes. "There is a system here. Taking. Charity bin. Greg's problem."

"The museum was informative, but they refused to keep it open past five, even after I explained it was for case," Sherlock said. "I stopped by Lord Balmoral's last night as well. Poussin's _A Dance to the Music of Time_,_ Lido and the Swan_, the colours, the sky, the bed sheets—"

"Drapery."

"Striking similarities. The painting in his bedroom."

"Didn't think you were his type."

"_The Concert (after Vermeer)._ Similar to the original, except the musicians are shirtless young men and the central figure is clearly masturbating. Both paintings are signed C. Singleton. There was very little about him online. His last gallery show was in 1999."

"His address and telephone number should be in one of these boxes. At least his address and telephone number from ten years ago, but that's more than enough for you, isn't it?" Nina sliced open one of the boxes, and started pulling out bundles of papers. "At one point he changed his name to Millennium Artist, which is why you can't find him online—you'll get Michael Jackson or Prince. His self-published Millennium Art Manifesto didn't exactly have the effect he'd hoped for. And here it is." She handed Sherlock a thick notebook.

Sherlock began leafing through the wirebound pages. Millennium Artist did not believe in editing his writing so it would be accessible to the average reader, but he made up for it with his strong belief in red ink and unconventional capital letters.

Nina opened another box. "Where's my old Filofax? He believed he didn't receive the success he deserved because of the homoeroticism in his work and the general decline of narrative painting in contemporary art. It wasn't that—he enjoyed the brutality in 'brutal honesty' and all of the talent in the world can't rebuild some bridges once they've been burnt."

"Maybe he was right and his critics were all idiots," Sherlock said.

"Right doesn't always matter. Is this the 2002 box?" Nina slid the Stanley knife through the parcel tape, but it caught on the edge of the box, so she tugged it until it gave, sending the blade into her hand.

"Fuck," she screamed.

"Run some water over it, I'll get the first aid kit." Sherlock plucked the sky blue Filofax out of the box and tucked it into his coat before heading upstairs for the kit Lestrade kept in his desk.

Nina was already in the kitchen when he returned. "None of the plasters are the right size," she said. "If I die of septicaemia, I'll come back and haunt you."

"Is this your address book?" Sherlock began flipping through the pages. "It makes no sense."

"Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man. Woman." She took the Filofax from Sherlock with her uninjured hand. "It's organised thematically rather than alphabetically. Singleton. He's in the music section because bands release _singles_. Telephone number."

"He must've changed it by now," Sherlock said.

"His parent's address—how did you know where we keep our first aid kit?"

"The same way your Barbour jacket tells me that my brother is taking you to the country this weekend. I am a detective."

"Sometimes I think Mycroft is a little bored by my stories. He won't be bored by this one." Her voice was very flat. "You're the one Greg ironed his shirt for."

Sherlock decided not to lie. "Don't tell Mycroft," he said.

"Why not?"

He had no answer.

John had once made a list of Sherlock's areas of knowledge. Chemistry: 5 stars, Astronomy: nil, Anatomy: 5 stars, Neuroscience: 3.2 stars

"Surely neuroscience deserves at least four stars. Despite my lack of formal training—"

"Three stars is generous. I'm not sure you can "delete" things from your "hard drive". The brain as a computer, it's a metaphor, literary rather than scientific," John replied.

Outside of Sherlock's knowledge base: pop music, most jazz, the name of the Mayor of London, literature, films other than the ones John liked to watch, the words he needed to describe his relationship with Lestrade.

"Let's see how I feel when the Stages of Grief wheel stops spinning," Nina said. "Maybe you'll get lucky and it'll land on acceptance rather than anger. I will tell Mycroft you said hello."

"There's no need."

"I'm going to tell him you knifed me in a pub brawl." She adjusted the bandage on her hand. "It really does hurt, you know."

* * *

With his bland, blond good looks, Gregson's sergeant appeared to be a younger version of Tobias Gregson.

"According to the reports, you were the one interfacing with Acton."

"Yes, sir."

Interfacing—what kind of word was that? Scotland Yard and the local police, they should be left hand and right hand, and no one would say their left hand interfaced with their right.

"Listen, son, keep your head down, do your job, and I'll take care of you, alright?" Lestrade was glad Sherlock wasn't there to hear his less than inspired speech.

"Encouraging the troops? Not exactly St. Crispin's Day."

Lestrade wondered, not for the first time, if Sherlock worked at making dramatic appearances. "Have you met Sherlock? You'll get used to him," Lestrade said.

"Is this the new Sally? It's about time."

Donovan stopped outside the office door. "There's no new Sally, which you know because you were at my desk a moment ago, trying to read over my shoulder," she said. The sergeant followed her out to the main office, and Lestrade locked the door behind them.

"You're only encouraging her to eavesdrop," Sherlock said.

"She's attentive, there's a difference."

"Why did you lock the door? Unless you think..." Sherlock ran his thumb over Lestrade's cheek. "Your wife's lipstick."

"She came round this morning. How did you know?" Lestrade asked.

"She kissed you good-bye," Sherlock said. "This is hello." He kissed Lestrade's other cheek, then moved his head slightly and caught the edge of Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade smelled different, as if he'd used aftershave or something, and coffee. Coffee. Sherlock pulled away.

"I need your mug," Sherlock said. He couldn't help but feel pleased at the dazed expression on Lestrade's face. He picked up the mug from Lestrade's desk and opened the office door. "Oh, and if your wife says I stabbed her, she's lying."

Donovan and the new sergeant looked up from her computer. "So, he's stabbing people now?" she asked.

_She's attentive_, Lestrade reminded himself. _Attentive. That's what makes a good detective._

* * *

The world was a dark and ugly place, sallow, ashen faces, reddened hideous mouths murmuring incoherent and sinister whispers. Gregson tried not to move his head. It didn't help. Sherlock was in front of him, doing an improbable juggling act with an egg, a bottle of Worcestershire sauce, and some kind of powder.

"Drink," Sherlock ordered.

"Is this Lestrade's mug?" The thought of Lestrade being deprived of coffee was cheering until he remembered he owed Lestrade for helping him patch his leaky boat.

"This should give you the energy you need for the drive to Hull. Best not to call from your office phone."

Gregson took a deep breath and swallowed Sherlock's hangover remedy. "Why am I going to Hull? Are you coming with me? Oh, fuck. I think my eyes are falling out."

"The pain means it's working. How do you feel about arresting not just the distributors, but the manufacturer as well?"

Gregson rested his head on his desk. The world was a fiery inferno.

"Infernos are, by definition, fiery. When the burning stops, you're going to go to Hull, interface with the local police, and arrest some naughty university students who decided to put their chemistry skills to practical use. I'm afraid if you don't arrest them, they may not live to regret their youthful blunders."

"Are you coming?" Healthy sunlight was slowly returning to Gregson's world.

"No. I told Mackenzie I'd get him a couple of thieves and a forger, and there's still the matter of finishing what I was asked to do."

_The Falls of the Reichenbach_. He had the address, all he needed was for Mackenzie to get the warrant.

* * *

Lord Balmoral opened the door to his private museum, his study. It was a little after noon, time to start the day with tea and the newspapers. He used his handkerchief to dust his favourite ceramic statue, the soldier enjoying strict military discipline. "Forever wilt thou love, eh?"

There was no tea, no Times. Instead, a slick young man lounged behind his desk.

"Hi. I'm Jim," the young man cheerfully introduced himself.

Lord Balmoral dusted off his second-favourite statue, the one with a nautical theme. When he turned around, the young man was still there. "Where's my tea?" he asked. It was worth a try.

"I'm afraid your housekeeper is a little tied up." Jim's smile widened. "A lot tied up."

Lord Balmoral sighed. He'd always loved finding young men in his rooms, but there was something wrong with this one.

"Please sit down. We have some business to discuss." He generously offered Lord Balmoral one of his own chairs. "We have friends in common. My right hand man, executive director, if you will, is a solid businessman and a crack shot, can drill a hole in a squirrel's skull at over a hundred yards." Jim's eyes became sorrowful. "But we're all as the good Lord made us. My dear friend and employee is, as they say, lucky in love and unlucky at cards."

"That fool Moran works for you? He promised me—"

"I know, I know," Jim said soothingly. "He was only supposed to be in London long enough to help our clients launch their fabulous new product, but his will was weak and he couldn't resist a quick game of chance. You also had bad luck that night?"

"Bloody bad luck apparently."

"Moran's being disciplined right now. I may throw a little party later so everyone can watch him beg for forgiveness. It's important to set an example." Jim picked up the ceramic sailor. "He knows how I adore teasing Sherlock Holmes and he hoped to please me by distracting dear Sherlock with your little scam. But our game, our _folie à deux_, isn't for the likes of him or you." He threw the ceramic into the air, then caught it before it could hit the desk. "So light. So very light."

"Do you fancy Sherlock Holmes then? I don't see the appeal myself, and he's already got a boyfriend." Lord Balmoral tried to keep his eyes from following the ceramic as Jim casually tossed it from hand to hand.

"John Watson isn't his boyfriend, anyway, my girl Irene got pretty definite proof of his heterosexual tendencies. You're the kind who thinks everyone is gay: Shakespeare, Prince Charles, Sherlock Holmes, me."

"I don't think you're gay. You're barely human."

"Catch." Jim tossed the ceramic to Lord Balmoral. "You're not completely senile, are you? I'm so glad we could have this little chat about how you should lower your expectations regarding the return of your art and the money you had hoped to receive." Jim left the study with a cheerful wave.

Lord Balmoral collapsed in his chair, unpleasantly warm proof Jim was human despite his reptilian appearance. He opened the top drawer and felt around for the spring that released the hidden compartment. The study door swung open.

"Today Peter and Kevin will be doing the honours." Two shadows loomed behind Jim. "Pete here wanted to be a midfielder for Man City until he tore his ACL; Kevin 'weren't doing nufink' until I found him suitable employment, employment which includes knocking you on the head, smashing every statue, tearing every painting, and setting your house on fire. I'm in a very competitive industry and killing lots of people is how my organisation emerged as a market leader. Go for it, boys!" Jim waved again, and left the study to his employees.

Jim had identified Pete as a football player, but he looked comfortable and relaxed holding a baseball bat. Kevin was nervous. His brass knuckles didn't fit right, so he wiggled his fingers and tried not to think about how it was better when he had nothing to do except sit in his flat playing video games. Everyone had said "real life" was better, but it wasn't. There was too much blood and no save points, no way to stop, hit reset, refuse the mission, choose a different path, one that didn't end with some harmless old man's brains all over the floor.

Lord Balmoral pulled out his revolver from the secret compartment and pointed it at Kevin's head.

The door was slightly ajar. Something was wrong. Lestrade called for backup, then walked back to Lord Balmoral's front door and pushed it open. The light in the study was on and he could hear voices.

"Put down the gun, grandad. We're not going to hurt you."

Lestrade froze. One gun, at least two young men with weapons.

"You came here to kill me. At least I won't be going alone."

"Don't listen to him, Kev. Doubt that thing even works."

Two young men. Lestrade inched forward to get a better look at the scene.

"I dunno."

"It'll explode in his hand."

"I dunno. You say that, but it's my head."

Lestrade checked his watch. He needed to follow procedure and wait for backup. Safety, not just his own, meant waiting. But Lord Balmoral had proved to have very poor judgement, and the voice that wasn't Kev sounded impatient. Lestrade pulled out his warrant card, and stepped into the study. "Police. Weapons down, everyone, and hands where I can see them."

No one moved.

"Everyone. Weapons. Down."

Kev slowly removed his brass knuckles and dropped them where Lestrade could see, then flung himself out of the line of fire.

"Useless fucker," Pete snarled and swung the metal baseball bat at Lestrade.

The blow shocked Lestrade; for a moment the world narrowed to a white-hot circle of pain. The bat came toward him again, he caught the barrel and pulled until Pete staggered forward. Lestrade tried to use Pete's weight against him, but Pete regained his balance and shoved the end of the barrel into Lestrade's chest. The room went sideways and Lestrade tried to breathe.

"If you move the fellow this way, I can—"

"No! Put the gun down!" Lestrade's voice was rough.

Lord Balmoral tried to steady his hand. The two men were too close for him to get a shot in and the room had become strangely blurred. He pointed the gun at Kev, who was trying to crawl for the door.

Pete swung the bat at Lestrade's head, but Lestrade ignored the pain in his shoulder and threw himself at Pete, knocking him to the ground. Pete's head hit floor with a heavy thud, but he didn't loosen his grip on the bat. He wanted to smash Lestrade's face with the handle, anything to make Lestrade give up. But Lestrade was too fast, he was back on his feet, so the bat smacked into his legs instead. Lestrade kicked the bat away, Pete rolled over and scrambled after it, so Lestrade kicked him again.

"Don't," he said. The adrenaline rush was fading; he could feel every place he'd been hit.

"My dear boy, that was splendid." Lord Balmoral said. He tried to put his gun back into the secret compartment, but his hands were shaking too much to work the latch and there was something wrong with the lights in the room, they flashed with irregular bursts of sound, they made the voices in the room, his policeman, the other policemen, inaudible.

Now he understood why the slick young man had seemed so familiar. "I know him. He's Death," Lord Balmoral tried to say, but the sounds and the lights were too wild and fast. Somewhere in the distance, he was aware that Lestrade had caught him before he could hit the ground.

* * *

"When I was in school, I used to imagine the reviews. _After a promising beginning, his latest show reveals Mackenzie to be the natural heir to iconoclasts such as Arbus and Winogrand_."

Mackenzie's office had noticeably fewer windows than Lestrade's or Gregson's. Even Dimmock had more natural light and a slightly more comfortable chair.

Sherlock picked up a torn parcel from Mackenzie's desk. "Expensive paper, address written with the non-dominant hand to disguise the writing. A single, perfect fingerprint on the tape. Fake. Someone's having a laugh." Sherlock sniffed the paper. "A smoker."

"_Mackenzie's photographs demonstrate the continued relevance of photography as an art in a digital age_." He carefully screwed a 90mm lens into his Leica.

"You already know who sent this," Sherlock said.

"A couple of rahs who think the distribution of wealth isn't in their favour." He finally looked up and Sherlock could see the cold rage in his eyes. "There's a costume ball at Milchester Abbey this weekend; by the time I finish installing CCTV, they'll be calling it Panopticon Abbey."

"Some people love a challenge."

"I sincerely hope so."

"If you're up for some arrests today, Gregson is headed up to Hull to sweep up the drugs operation. The man who is copying the paintings is up there as well."

"I'll see to the warrants, lad." Mackenzie's accent returned as his mood improved.

Both men's phones vibrated at the same time.

_Turner thieves arrested - GL_

"Were they in front of him in the queue for coffee?" Sherlock wondered. It was exciting when Lestrade showed his unpredictable side.

"Damn him. This is my case."

"I'll keep your forger alive for you," Sherlock promised.

* * *

The artist's studio was at the end of a street of small detached houses that ran parallel to a concrete wall over which could be seen motionless excavators and other heavy equipment. A woman walking a spaniel openly stared at the taxi that brought Sherlock to the house. The artist was obviously not popular with his neighbours. Blacked out windows on the ground floor told Sherlock he was at the correct address. It was small, two rooms on the ground floor with an attic turned studio above, an insubstantial cottage constructed out of paper. Two dimensional, like a drawing cut out of a children's fairy book and taped to a suburban road.

The smell of wet, rotting wood and decay were familiar to Sherlock from the days when he'd organised his time around squats and shooting galleries. He'd loved the predictability, how understanding the chemistry meant knowing how he would feel at any given moment in the day. Up the stairs, hours of waiting, back to his flat, hours of dreaming.

The artist was lying face down on the ground, and for a moment Sherlock was afraid he'd miscalculated and come too late.

"You can leave it over there." The artist's voice was almost inaudible.

"I'm not the delivery boy."

"Who are you?"

"You could say I'm a fan of your work. I've got one of your paintings over my sofa, or I would if the police and my flatmate allowed it."

The artist lifted his head and stared at Sherlock. He was thin, with a pale, bloated face and hair so filthy it was difficult to see the colour.

"They're paying you in drugs, aren't they?"

"They're paying me in peace of mind. Which painting?"

"_Light and Colours_. Not yours really."

"It's beautiful, isn't it? Order emerging after the deluge, the opposite of how the world actually works. Time takes everything and gives nothing in return. A few blades of grass remain in a decimated field. I once thought I was clever, remaking _The Concert_ as a satire on performance and voyeurism. Satire is a sort of glass in which narcissism masquerades as awareness. I reject the clever and embrace the eternal. One day, all will be lost. How will those who come later see that we existed, we created!"

"Decimate means reducing by one in ten," Sherlock said. The worst part of a drugs habit had been listening to his fellow users pontificate, especially the ones who never stopped talking long enough for Sherlock to present his own theories.

"If you insist. Language is a distraction from the thing itself."

"Time for another hit then? Go ahead, if you'd like. They'll sort you out in rehab."

"I'm not going to rehab."

"It has its good points. I quite enjoyed talking to my team of psychiatrists."

"They'll kill me first."

"I'm here to keep you nice and safe for the police. Where is the painting?"

"Which one?"

"_The Falls of the Reichenbach_. Where is it?"

The real painting and the copy stood side by side on their easels.

"You can't tell them apart."

"Of course I can. It's obvious." One smelled new, the other didn't. Another smell, stronger than the oil paint, caught his attention. "Petrol."

"I said they would kill me. I'm only sorry I couldn't copy more paintings first."

Sherlock opened the door to the stairwell and smoke billowed into the room.

"Get up, you idiot!" Sherlock kicked the artist, who blinked at him, already returning to his chemically enhanced peace. Sherlock pulled the artist to his feet and dragged him to the stairs. The smoke was thicker. Sherlock wrapped his scarf over his mouth and half-carried the artist down the stairs and through the front door.

Fire, police, ambulances, everyone was shouting. Sherlock dumped the artist in a patch of grass and ran back into the house.

Nothing was going to stop him from winning.

It was in every newspaper the next day: Sherlock Holmes, emerging from the fiery inferno, triumphantly holding The Falls of the Reichenbach.

"He's not going to want the blanket," Lestrade told the paramedic.

Sherlock continued scrolling through his messages. "Why are you here?" he asked. "Everyone who needs to be arrested has been arrested, except Moriarty, but his day will come." Sherlock smiled at Lestrade, who didn't smile back. "Did you come to take me back to London?"

"My car is over there."

Sherlock shrugged off the blanket and followed Lestrade. "It's happy endings all around. Why are you angry?"

"We're not going to talk here," Lestrade said.

As soon as the lights and noise from the fire faded into the distance, Sherlock turned his full attention to Lestrade. The reason for his anger should be obvious, but it wasn't. He was hurt, there was something wrong with his arm, and he was very tired.

"Did you see Mackenzie? He was so happy he started calling me 'laddie' again."

"You ran into a burning building," Lestrade said.

"I said I would get the painting back. I did."

"You ran into a burning building, you could have died, and for what? A bloody painting."

"I won."

"You won this time, but what about the next? Do I get to watch you burn to death?" Lestrade's phone rang. "Work. Can you get it?"

"Donovan! How lovely to hear from you."

"You must be pleased, your face all over the telly. Put the boss on," Donovan said.

"He's not my boss."

"Tell her I'm driving and I will call her back."

"He's driving—" Donovan had already hung up.

Lestrade pulled the car off the motorway and drove until he found a deserted car park next to a business centre. Sherlock watched him as he paced back in forth under the dark trees that separated the business centre from the woods. What was Donovan was telling him? Not bad news, but it was something Lestrade was having a hard time believing judging from the way he kept shaking his head. Anger had turned to incredulity.

Sherlock moved to the back of the car and waited for Lestrade to finish.

"Lord Balmoral had a minor stroke this afternoon. Minor, except... I'll let you guess."

"Amnesia."

"When Sally tried to talk to him, a solicitor appeared and said his client had been diagnosed with pure retrograde amnesia. His last memory is of talking to you at the art gallery."

"The afternoon of the burglary, a little over a week ago. How very convenient."

"God, how I wish I could arrest him for wasting police time."

"It's not a complete waste of time, is it?" Sherlock turned so he could see Lestrade. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"One of the thieves resisted arrest."

"Let me see."

"What, here? This can wait until we're back in London," Lestrade said, but he let Sherlock unbutton his shirt. Sherlock turned on the interior light so he could examine the bruise on Lestrade's arm.

"Resisted arrest with a baseball bat. You shouldn't have driven up here." Sherlock gently kissed Lestrade just above the bruise. "You should be home asleep." Sherlock kissed the bruise on his chest, on his shoulder, then reached down to unbuckle Lestrade's belt, but Lestrade stopped him.

"If I'm going to be half-naked in public, so are you. I can barely feel you under this coat." Lestrade tried to demonstrate, but stopped when he encountered something unexpected. Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Worcestershire sauce.

"It's yours," Sherlock said.

Lestrade stared at the bottle. He turned it over, read the label, and started to laugh. "This is the least romantic present anyone has ever given me. It may be the least romantic present in the history of presents."

"It's not a present; it's from your house."

"And you've been walking around with it in your pocket? Why? Don't tell me, no explanation will be as brilliant as what I can imagine."

Still laughing, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's ear. "I'm still wearing more clothes than you. Unfair." He pushed Sherlock's coat out of the way, and Sherlock rewarded him by climbing on to his lap. Sherlock's skin tasted like smoke; it made Lestrade want to hold him even tighter.

"Let's do this together," Lestrade whispered. "Look at me, baby."

They were both too tall to stay comfortably in the back of the car for very long, but it felt safe, a place set apart from the rest of the world. Sherlock rested his head on Lestrade's stomach and rubbed his cheek against the hair. "I like this. It's darker than the hair on your head." Lestrade didn't say anything; he'd never seen Sherlock so calm.

Sherlock's voice was low and sleepy. "Before we do this again, we need to talk about endearments. I don't think I like _baby_. It's a little generic."

"If we're talking about names..." Lestrade wasn't sure, but at one point he thought he'd heard Sherlock call him _Inspector_. "Are you asleep?"

"Mmm. Thinking. You're right."

"I'm right two days in a row?"

"Jim Moriarty is a very rich man. Money, flowing through his network." Sherlock traced the word _network_ over Lestrade's skin. "There is no way he is untouched. Are you still friends with that forensic accountant from Europol? I think she fancied you, which could be useful. Money laundering is so dull, but dullness could be an advantage. Moriarty will be expecting something exciting..."

"If Moriarty is doing what you say he is, we will get him. I promise." But Sherlock had fallen asleep and couldn't hear Lestrade making promises he wouldn't be able to keep.

Lord Balmoral's private hospital room was filled with flowers and cards and members of the legal profession. With his halo of white hair resting on a mound of high thread count pillows, Lord Balmoral looked deceptively angelic. He smiled benevolently at Sherlock and John.

"Ah, Mr Holmes. They tell me you've done such wonderful things. I'm sorry I couldn't be at the little ceremony."

"They gave me cufflinks."

"The painting was originally valued at less than two million, but it looks like it may go for eleven. It was very kind of you to fetch my painting, very kind."

"It wasn't kindness, you hired me," Sherlock said.

"Did I? I'm afraid my memories of the past week are gone forever, snows of yesteryear."

John pulled out his notebook. "I believe the agreement was for a certain percentage of the sale." He handed his notebook to the nearest solicitor. "Here. I wrote it all down."

"Notes, you took notes." Lord Balmoral did not seem at all dismayed by his failure. "Why don't you go outside and show your notes to my advisers. Mr Holmes can amuse me while you sort it out."

"Amnesia. Are you afraid of the legal system, or of something or someone else?"

"_Les neiges d'antan_. I do have a small token of appreciation for the services they tell me you've rendered. I am sorry." He handed Sherlock a large, awkwardly wrapped package.

"A book," Sherlock said.

"Yes, a book. It's quite rare, and I think you'll find it far more useful than cufflinks."

"Why did you say you were sorry? Apologies aren't really in your line. What did you tell Moriarty and don't say amnesia."

Lord Balmoral touched the bandage on his head. "My dear boy, the past ten days are gone forever. I will confess there have been times when my discretion regarding the amours of my friends has failed me." He put on an affected voice. "You can leave the frilly knickers tonight, darling. She's already got a man. I would never say a name, of course, that's not done."

"I think we've come to an agreement." John looked pleased, until he saw the look on Sherlock's face. "Did something happen?"

"I was just telling Mr Holmes about my new job." He waved at one of the solicitors, who brought him a business card case. "As soon as I receive the money from the auction, I am moving to Las Vegas. There's a new hotel..." He handed John his card.

"Wow," John said. "Official authentic rakish aristocrat at The Windsor." John turned the card over. "Hosting Cream Teas at the Princess Diana Rose Cottage, and giving prizes at an Agricultural Show, to be held every weekend on the top level of the Henry V parking structure."

"Although the murder rate is higher in Las Vegas, for you it is a much safer place," Sherlock said.

In the taxi, John continued to examine Lord Balmoral's new business card. "I shouldn't find it amazing, but I do. How is it possible to get a job being yourself?"

"I'm sure he'll gamble every dollar they give him, so they're only out the cost of the 'authentyck' cream teas."

"What did he give you? Is it a shirt to match the cufflinks."

"Very funny. It's obviously a book." Sherlock tore off the wrapping paper, allowing the smell of antique leather to fill the taxi. The top-hatted gentlemen on the frontispiece looked respectable, like characters from _The Wings of a Dove_ or _The Forsyte Saga_. John turned the page.

"It's... he gave you pornography. Gay porn. I don't know why this surprises me." John started flipping through the pages. "No, it's not porn, it's a gay sex instruction book, lots of Victorians, Edwardians, what were people called in the twenties?"

"Bright Young Things."

"Yes, them. It's probably quite valuable. After our first meeting, I looked up some of those naked statues he has. People will pay a lot for those."

"I'm not selling it. It can go on the shelf with the other reference books," Sherlock said. Yes, it would go on the shelf as soon as he studied it thoroughly and decided which positions Lestrade would be likely to try. He replaced the wrapping paper and cursed the taxi driver's slowness and respect for traffic laws.


End file.
